


Peaches

by Captain_Cha0s



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Christmas, Flirting, M/M, Sexual Tension, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Cha0s/pseuds/Captain_Cha0s
Summary: Slade Wilson is a whiskey man. But it's Christmas, and he can't deny he loves the taste of peaches from the Schnapps on Dick's tongue.AKASlade breaks into Dicks apartment, and lots of sexual tension ensues.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 180





	Peaches

Slade Wilson is a whiskey man. He doesn't drink often - not seeing the point with the whole _inability to get drunk due to superhuman enhancements_ thing. Although, even if he could, he probably wouldn't do it anyway. It helps to maintain a clear mind in his line of work. But when he does drink, it's two fingers of expensive whiskey in a chilled glass, enjoying the burn of the alcohol, and the warmth it brings him, for however long it lasts.

Dick would often tease him about this, telling the mercenary that he only drank for the _look_ ; glass in one hand, cigar in the other, the image of cool. And that was exactly how he was sat now, perfectly at ease as he relaxed on his little bird's sofa. Although he also knew that Dick loved the taste of it when they kissed. That always managed shut him up pretty quickly.

Dick's apartment, in short, was a complete shit hole. Even with all the things Slade had bought him to add a little more style to the place (growling every time the words 'sugar daddy' were thrown around). The paint of the eggshell blue walls was pealing. The heating was completely broken (which was quite the worry in mid December). Half the lights didn't work, and the table before him creaked dangerously beneath the crossed ankles he rested on it. At least he knew the sofa was new, having bought it personally. Although they had certainly made a decent effort of breaking it in.

He took a long, slow drag on the cigar, letting the smoke fill his lungs as he waited for his favourite pain in the ass to get home. Someone - probably Dick - once told him that a cigar was equal to four cigarettes. Once again, this was never something he worried about. Another perk of the whole _increased healing due to superhuman enhancements_ thing. He blew the smoke out slowly into the air, clouding in the same way his breath did in the chill apartment, to take another sip of his drink.

Dick, fortunately, doesn't take long. Slade doesn't even flinch when he hears the rattle of keys in the lock. Doesn't even turn his head as a sign of acknowledgement. By the sound of it though, Dick is more than a little shocked - if the little " _Shit_." he exhales as he tried to catch the shopping he almost dropped is anything to go by. He manages to compose himself pretty easily, however, having recognised the white hair and strong shoulders just visible over the top of the sofa. Hauling the bags back into his arm, he kicks his apartment door closed behind him.

"You know, I have a phone," He begins, heading to the kitchen to unload the shopping, shock turning to halfhearted annoyance. "So you could always send a warning that you're going to be stopping by? Just so I don't have a heart attack _every_ time I find Deathstroke lounging on _my_ sofa like he owns the place."

An amused smirk tugs at Slade's lips as he stamps out the cigar in the ashtray on the table before him. It has ' _asshole_ ' written across the bottom in swirly pink handwriting. Dick bought it for him a while back as a joke, when his visits began to become a little more regular. Although, despite how frequent these drop ins had become (or booty calls, as Dick affectionately calls them), they always managed to catch the kid off guard.

At least this was better than Slade _actually_ turning up in full gear. There was a certain presence surrounding that armour, and what the man wearing it had done. Or, more concerning to Dick, what he planned to do next. It usually ended up with him regretting all his life choices, and yet, somehow, still loving every second of it - even if he did end up with a few aches and pains the next day.

Today however, it's not really Deathstroke the Terminator in his living room. It's Slade Wilson, in a tight white t-shirt, dark jeans, and military grade boots. So casual, but entirely no less dangerous.

Leaning back again, Slade throws his now free arm over the back of the sofa, twisting slightly to finally address his old adversary, "I didn't want to ruin the surprise."

The humour laced through that rough as sandpaper voice is enough to stop Dick in his tracks, bottle half way pulled from the brown paper bag on the kitchen counter before him.

"Surprise?" He raises an eyebrow in suspicion.

"I wanted to drop in. Say Merry Christmas."

A far too innocent response. There was an intent hidden behind his words. There always was with him.

Whatever this thing was between them, neither of them had a name for it yet; nothing quite so formal as dating. If Nightwing happened to run into Deathstroke on patrol, they were still sure to fight. Sure to hurt each other (which would give Dick serious whiplash when Slade would then turn up at his door later to patch up the injuries he himself had inflicted earlier that same night). But there was also a possessiveness in that; like Deathstroke was the _only_ one allowed to hurt Nightwing. God save any miscellaneous bad guy who tried to hurt the little bird in front of him. He was more than willing to kill for the kid, which scared Dick to no end... Even if it _was_ quite a turn on, to have someone care about him that much. And boy, did he hate himself for ever realising that.

If they had to come up with a name for it, it would probably be _mutual respect_.

It didn't set Dick any more at ease as he finally pulled the bottle free. It made a quiet, wet thunk as he set it down beside the rest of the shopping; loud enough to draw Slade's attention.

"Peach Schnapps?"

Dick couldn't ignore the hint of judgement in his tone, though he tried his best to. He knows everyone likes to say it's a ' _girly_ ' drink, but he likes it goddamnit! He'd take a cocktail over a beer any day, if not for the comments people made. At least they actually taste nice.

"As a kid, Alfred would always let me drink some on Christmas. Nothing more than a shot. It was the only alcohol I was ever allowed, but it became a bit of a tradition." Dick's cheeks heated just a little, feeling like he was baring far too much of his soul any time he spoke of home. "I thought, now I'm actually old enough to buy it myself, I'd be the one bringing some to the manor this year."

"So you're spending Christmas with the Bat?"

There was that judgement in Slade's tone again. At least it had moved away from his opinions of Dick having the alcoholic tastes of a teenage girl. The tolerance, too, if they were both honest.

"Why," Dick decided to bite back, in the mood to push the man who had broken into his apartment, more teasing than heat in his words. "You'd rather I'd spend it with you? We can feed each other turkey, all romantic, watch shitty Christmas movies, and then you can dress up as Santa just for me-"

He regretted that last bit the second it was out of his mouth. He was playing a dangerous game, and he wasn't yet sure whether he wanted to win or lose.

Slade lifted his glass to his lips, finishing off the golden liquid inside oh so smoothly, before asking, "Would you like that?"

Dick is sure that if he was the one drinking in that moment, he may have choked. He's so stunned by the proposition, he has no idea how to reply. His brain still seems to be processing the offer, eyes blown wide as his mind races. The images that simple question conjures... But yes, _god yes_ , he's pretty sure he would love that.

 _Fuck_ , there was something wrong with him.

Slade Wilson, AKA Deathstroke, mercenary, super soldier, _killer_ \- and all Dick can imagine is him in a Santa hat, taking him over the table, stupid cigar between his teeth.

When he doesn't reply, Slade smirks again as if he knows exactly what he'd thinking, suggesting, "Why don't you bring that bottle of Schnapps over here?"

"But the manor-" Dick attempts to find his words, all too flustered (and very, very turned on).

"I'll buy you another bottle." He promises with that 'I won't ask again' glint in his eye.

Dick was never able to disobey that tone. Call it the Daddy Issues.

Knowing he's already lost, he shucks off his big winter coat and dumps it on the side. It's blue, like most things he owns. He likes the colour scheme - even if Bruce has chastised him time and time again for how easily it connected him to his night time persona. Although, it wasn't as if the man strolled away from black or grey in his daily life either, never willing to allow himself even a splash of colour. He was a fine one to talk.

Although, maybe he had a point when Dick had gone around wearing that Robin Letterman jacket when he was 16... But that was almost 10 years ago now, and he was a different person. For starters, if you'd asked him at that age what he'd be doing in 8 years time, he definitely wouldn't have seen himself sleeping with Deathstroke.

Without the jacket on, Dick finally felt the chill of the apartment. His arms broke out in goosebumps as he snatched up the bottle from the kitchen counter. His thin t-shirt and joggers do little against the cold. He was surprised that Slade hadn't commented on it yet - always so vocal on his dissatisfaction with his current living arrangements. Although maybe the temperature wasn't getting to him as much due to the whole, you know, _enhancement_ thing.

As Dick neared the sofa, kicking off his shoes on the way, Slade dropped his boots from the table finally. It made a protesting groan again, as if that small movement would be enough to do it in. Maybe that wouldn't be the best location for the Christmas shakedown...

Taking the invitation as Slade spreads his legs before him, Dick slides onto his lap smoothly, settling down comfortably like he belongs there. There's always been a fluidity to his movements, making him look so sure - even as his heart pounded in his chest. There was something so captivating about the ex-acrobat, and Slade can't pull his attention away from him now, studying him with that icy grey/blue eye.

Dick can smell the whiskey on his breath this close now, and his aftershave, and the smoke that clings to his skin. Although he's never agreed with the latter activity, he can't help but enjoy the familiarity of the combination. The warmth, too, is nice. The man between his thighs feels like a furnace in comparison to the room around them, and he'd happily stay like this forever. Although, with the way Slade is looking at him, he doubts they'll stay _like this_ very long at all.

"I thought you'd at least get me a new glass." Slade comments, still completely at ease despite the lack of distance between them.

"And have more washing up to do?" Dick grins, some of the cheekiness from earlier returning.

He never was able to help himself. That mouth...

Slade's empty hand comes to rest on Dick's thigh, high enough to suggest things to come. He rubs little circles with his thumb. It's a surprisingly tender gesture, but he knows what the kid likes. That sometimes, what he needs is for someone to be gentle with him for once.

It seems to work, too, as Dick takes the initiative, and leans in. He gets so caught up in the moment - how soft Slade is being, the tickle of his beard, the sharp flavour of whiskey - that he almost lets the bottle slip from his hand. They break away all too quickly in his attempt to catch it, Dick hissing a little " _Shit_." for the second time that day.

"I'd like to try some before you throw it on the floor." Slade comments, all dry humour and gruffness.

Dick can't help but note the role reversal here. Usually he's the one with the little quips and digs. It's pretty unusual for someone to say something to actually get him to shut up. In the past, when Slade is in a particularly punishing mood, it has even driven him to break out a ball gag; blue, just so it would be in keeping with the whole Nightwing aesthetic. He could be a real asshole sometimes.

"Just keeping you on your toes." Dick finally found his tongue.

He cracked open the bottle with ease. But instead of pouring any in Slade's glass (as he expected), he lifted the bottle to his own lips and took a swig. No complaints were raised, of course. It was too much of an intoxicating sight. The flush in his cheeks. The movement of his throat.

When he finally pulls away, Dick is grinning, and there's something mischievous in his expression. He spun the lid back on, and lent into Slade again. This time, the kiss tastes of peaches. It was hot on Dick's lips, and wet on his tongue, and so very very sweet.

Slade decided to put the glass down, much preferring this method of a taste test. With his hands now free, he brings them up to squeeze Dick's hips, dragging the two of them even closer, so their bodies pressed almost flushed together. There was more need now, especially in the way Dick moaned into the movement. The ever so slight friction it caused.

This time, Slade is the one to break it, hating himself for it. He's eyeing up Dick again, who seems absolutely breathless, and can't help but run one rough thumb over his bottom lip. It's so soft in comparison. Slade doesn't think he's ever seen someone so beautiful, especially in this moment, and he really takes this moment to appreciate it. The mess of black hair. Those pretty blue eyes. His lips, a brighter shade of pink now from the kiss.

"You're right." He announces. "That stuff ain't half bad."

And he means it, all previous judgement forgotten, sure he'll forever associate the taste of peaches with his little bird. Dick grins again at the statement, eyes sparkling at this strange feeling of validation. But then there's that Nightwing he knows...

"Would you like to try some more?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written since I was like 13 lol. I like to think I've improved in the last 7 years, but my old stuff is never going to see the light of day for people to make a comparison.
> 
> Please enjoy that this was definitely the wrong time of year for me to write this, but I was in a mood.
> 
> All feedback is very welcome :)


End file.
